


Two Halves

by days4daisy



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016), Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Extra Treat, False Identity, M/M, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-26
Updated: 2017-11-26
Packaged: 2019-02-03 20:37:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12755745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/days4daisy/pseuds/days4daisy
Summary: Emotion is the soldier's greatest enemy.





	Two Halves

**Author's Note:**

  * For [spookykingdomstarlight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/spookykingdomstarlight/gifts).



_["What do you feel, captain?"_

_Cassian looks at the Imperial spy dangling from the wall by chained wrists. His body twists and convulses against shocks and stabs; screams grow wetter the deeper they cut._

_"I feel nothing," he says. It is the correct answer. Emotion is the soldier's greatest enemy.]_

Tonight is the night, Cassian tells himself when he pushes the alert button outside the director's quarters. He's had no better chance in his months undercover on Coruscant. The weeks have been trying, nodding his way through the monotonous life of an Imperial private. The surface Imperial routine that covers the deeper evil at work is a boring parade of appearances. Cassian has played the young, fresh-faced private dutifully. An eager attendee at Imperial events, but never a stand out. Cassian's Private Corville Dolann is pleasant company, an amenable transplant with fun Academy stories. He's also forgettable, a friendly face that disappears into a crowd and does not leave any sort of impression.

It will all be worth it after tonight. Cassian has his chance, and when opportunity presents itself he does not miss.

His assigned delegate appears as expected, but his condition is a surprise. Cassian expects Orson Krennic to be in higher spirits. Rumor is, today a special commendation was given to the project team of the Planet Killer, and Krennic is the leader of the weapon's development. Cassian was not sure when his assignment began, but he is convinced now. Knowledge has been difficult to come by, even behind the walls of the Empire's Core of Engineers. Cassian's detail has included access to Krennic's personal files. Krennic has proven to be a private man, weapon specifications and orders encoded and buried deep. But Cassian found them. The location of the weapon is still a mystery, but its existence is no longer in doubt. Neither is the involvement of Galen Erso, Krennic’s former classmate and friend.

The Krennic who appears at the mouth of his office does not look like a man who was just awarded an honor for his leadership of the Empire's most vital, deadly project. His shoulders are slumped, eyes red around the rims, hair mussed by repeated swipes of his own hand. Even his white cape does not hang with its usual flourish, draped across his back like protection from the cold. “Private Dolann,” Krennic greets, eyes narrowed in surprise. “Did you need something?”

Cassian's fabricated private walks a fine line between curiosity and a more suspicious nosiness. "Are you alright, sir?" he asks, eyes large and mouth ovaled in concern. Both take less effort than usual, Krennic's appearance _is_ a surprise, and Cassian reconsiders his plan for the evening. He thought to test his young private's kinship to his leader - perhaps offer a drink in celebration of the director's good mood. Two finger-length vials sit inside Cassian's uniform jacket; the decision between them was to be made upon arrival at Krennic's office. Now, his options are less clear than ever.

Krennic huffs but stands aside, allowing Cassian to enter. Inside, the director’s office is immaculate. No hint of dust on the white desk, white cabinets, or white-silled windows. Krennic’s office is on the 48th floor of the Core of Engineers' tower, second from the top, a status that seems to grate on Krennic.

“Are you a wine man, Dolann?” Krennic asks. He approaches the mini bar without waiting for an answer. A glass from the cabinet is filled with the contents of a near-empty bottle. Red.

“Reds, mainly,” Cassian says, pretending he hasn't seen the bottle.

Krennic nods. “You’re in luck.” He hands Cassian his glass and returns to his desk. The surface is bare, save a single holopad and a wineglass of his own, almost drained to the bottom.

Cassian sips. It’s a fine wine; this is not the first time Cassian has shared a drink with Krennic, and the director's tastes rarely miss the mark. But Krennic is often more restrained in matters of alcohol, or at least more discreet. The near-empty bottle on the countertop is an oversight Krennic does not make on a normal day.

Cassian drums thoughtful fingers on the rim of his glass. “I haven’t seen you since the delegates departed this afternoon.”

“Dreadfully dull,” Krennic mutters. He sips dejectedly from his glass.

“Dull?” Cassian widens his eyes on cue.

Krennic snorts. “Here’s a lesson for you, Dolann. The more ‘important’ the company, the more bored you’ll be. As if I don’t have anything better to do with my time.”

Time; it may be Krennic's most lamented treasure. Cassian's alias Private Dolann is not privileged with the knowledge of the Planet Killer. Even so, his interactions with Krennic are often marked by discussions of time. How important it is, how little there is of it, praise if Dolann completes an assignment ahead of schedule, rebukes if he does not. Krennic's obsession with time makes some sense, given the importance of the Planet Killer project. Still, Cassian can't help but feel that Krennic's fixation extends beyond the weapon; that time is the most precious thing to him, and would be even without directorship of the Death Star. Why, and what Krennic would truly do if afforded all the time in the world, remain a mystery. Not an important one, but Cassian finds himself mulling the idea more than he should.

Cassian places Dolann's innocuous smile on his face. “They should respect your time, sir, and your work. Your design of the amphitheatre at the cultural center has been the talk of the recruits.”

A cover project for Krennic's militaristic work, and something Cassian expects him to dismiss immediately. Krennic seems to be weary of reminders of his old achievements. The past is limiting, the future is potential, and confidentiality has not proven to be enough to hide Krennic's disdain for the man he used to be. Krennic’s architectural prowess was famed long before his military rise. Cassian still wonders how he transferred from one to the other. Orson Krennic graduated from the Imperial Futures Program, where he no doubt courted the brilliant scientist Galen Erso. Unlike Erso, Krennic is not well-renowned as an engineer. Design was his forte; with no past military experience, his rise within the Imperial ranks is a marvel. Awful as it is, Cassian can't help but find the ambition impressive.

Shockingly, Krennic does not shrug off his private's reminder of past glory. His eyes go to a faraway place, with a tilted head and the ghost of a smile. “I was always fond of that one.” He holds out his empty glass. “Top me off, won’t you, Dolann?” It’s too perfect.

Cassian smiles and takes Krennic’s glass. “Of course.” The vials feel hot and important in his jacket.

Cassian carries the glass to the counter and pours the wine. As he does, he slips a hand under his uniform’s edge. “It’s a wonderful design,” he says, to cover his rustling. “It has quite the reputation.”

“Reputation, yes. A currency more valuable than credits.” Krennic’s words have a curious edge to them, and Cassian risks a glance over his shoulder. He finds Krennic's eyes fixed on him, brows knit. He’s watching Cassian too closely, at the perfect angle to see Cassian's elbow crease and his fingers brush the front of his jacket. Cassian wipes his empty hand casually on his chest. Too perfect after all.

“And what of your reputation, private?” Krennic says.

“I’m afraid I don’t understand, sir.” Cassian returns the glass to Krennic. The wine is a rich, blood red in his glass.

“Your reputation,” Krennic repeats. His eyes take a leisurely scan of Cassian, head to toe. “You’ve told me all about my own reputation, but I’ve yet to figure out yours since you’ve been in my detail. What grand design do you have for your life, Dolann? What are you aiming to do?” If only he knew.

Cassian chuckles, like he’s embarrassed by the question. He’s perfected the act, down to the flush of awkward pink on his cheeks. Cassian resumes his seat across from Krennic. “I want to do what I can to best serve the-”

“Best serve the Empire. Of course.” Krennic scowls behind the lip of his glass. “Stars, you’re like the rest of them.” He downs a healthier swallow than Cassian expects.

Cassian shares the confusion of his fabricated counterpart. Serving the Empire is the correct answer, like it would be for the Rebellion. Cassian does not lift his glass to his lips, a fact that Krennic does not seem to notice as he stews in his chair. Cassian tries to process this odd lack of professionalism, the unexpected defiance from one of the Planet Killer’s puppet masters. Is this a sign of dissention? A rift in the project's leadership? is this something Cassian can use?

How forward would the imaginary Private Dolann be? As forward as a puzzled Cassian Andor?

He leans forward in his chair, honest and curious. “Is that the wrong answer, sir?” he asks. “Should my aim be different?”

“Not at all, Dolann.” Krennic sounds weary, a pinched hand over the bridge of his nose. “You are a model graduate from the Academy, I’m sure.” He waves a pair of disinterested fingers, eyes descending to his holopad. “You’re dismissed, private,” he says.

_["What do you feel, captain?"_

_Cassian pauses, lips a breath from his partner's. A male Coruscanti this time, or was it the female from Taris? He does not remember their names; gone, most of them, lost on some mission or other. Or maybe they're not, maybe they think the same of him, dead in some alleyway in the Ring of Kafrene or rotting away in an Outer Rim labor camp. These exercises are kept short-term for a reason, emotion is the soldier's enemy._

_"I feel nothing," Cassian says. He smiles and urges his partner's face back to his with a gentle swipe of a thumb. It is the correct answer, and General Draven sketches favorable notes onto his holopad.]_

Orders are easy to follow in this disguise. A leader in the Imperial fleet uses the same language as a leader in the Rebellion. Different aims, different goals, but all-too-similar methods. Cassian starts to stand, instincts burned into his body. Tonight has not been a total loss. He's learned of new complexity to the Death Star's command structure. Krennic's looseness with the wine may be something Cassian can use. If not, there's always this anger - even more visible than Krennic's usual temper.

And next time, Cassian's decision will be clear: blue vial if extraction is possible, capture the director and force him into Rebel hands; green vial if it is not. The latter is the neater option, the easiest; Krennic won’t feel a thing until it’s too late.

But Corville Dolann has other plans. He risks a smile and raises his still-full glass. “I haven’t finished yet, sir," he says, "if that’s all right.”

Krennic frowns. “Oh.” The reaction is quiet, oddly uneasy. He flicks a permissive hand and looks back down at his holopad. “By all means then.”

Cassian takes a careful sip of his wine. He's tempted to inquire further into Krennic's state of mind, but the action feels too presumptuous for Private Dolann. By now, Cassian is practiced enough not to force a half-thought out sentiment in disguise. He sits quietly across from Krennic and drinks every so often, to give merit to his continued presence. Time passes, and he wonders if Krennic still remembers that he’s here. He doesn't look up from his holopad, a frustrated hand combing down the screen. Is he so wrapped in his own vanity that he can lose himself in his work while his protege boredly sips wine across from him?

Only, Cassian isn't bored. He tries to keep his interest subtle, a glance in Krennic's direction every so often between casual looks around the office. But his eyes keep straying back to the director, to the tightness in his jaw and the soft scowl on his mouth, to the bow of his neck and the painful looking bunch of his shoulders. 

Krennic isn’t looking at the holopad anymore. His eyes are occupied by a hand, pinched and rubbed slowly. Cassian glances at his half-full glass and wonders if Private Dolann would take his cue. Any self-respecting soldier would get up and leave his superior officer to his work. But Corville Dolann is not Cassian Andor. He cares about people, he cares about Krennic. Dolann knows Orson Krennic is integral to the success of the Empire, and he admires Krennic's work.

The realization hits Cassian out of nowhere. Dolann has a softer side that appreciates the beauty of Krennic’s amphitheatre design. He wonders why the director’s work turned away from the architectural, and if he's better for the change. Dolann does not know the full extent of Krennic's dive into military pursuits, but he has his suspicions. The turn surprises Dolann, and concerns him. Maybe he knows it shouldn't, he should only want what's best for the Empire. What's best for the Empire doesn't involve the rush of feeling that suddenly tightens in Dolann's chest and shivers all the way down to the tips of his fingers. It isn't the weight of sudden knowing in his stomach, the dismayed _'oh no'_ that makes his breath catch in his throat.

Cassian places his glass on the desk. He’s careful as he rounds Krennic's desk, even more careful when he rests a hand across the bent arch of Krennic’s neck. The director stiffens, and Cassian expects anger. Corville Dolann does too; he braces for it, chewing the inside of a cheek nervously.

“What are you doing?” Krennic says. He sounds exhausted and confused, and the look he lifts is an information dump for Cassian. Skepticism, caution, and the faintest hint of interest.

Cassian tries to catalogue the look, index it with internal files upon files about Director Krennic. But it's near impossible to concentrate with Dolann's warm and startled response. His alias trips on a reply, opens his mouth a few times, and settles lamely on, "You're going to hurt yourself, sir...sitting like that." 

Krennic barks a bitter laugh. Finally, the anger Cassian thought he would get from the beginning appears. Only, there's something else too, cold and strange. “You’ll get nothing for this,” he says. “This isn’t how you serve the Empire.”

 _["You'll get nothing for this." Cassian's hand is torn off his shoulder, and the look he gets is like ice. "This isn't how you serve the Rebellion."_ _Cassian nods and takes his leave. He knows better than this._

_Cassian stands up straight and schools his face into calm. He does not think about the nausea twisting in his gut like a knife._

_Nothing. He feels nothing. Emotion is the soldier's enemy.]_

Cassian shakes his head against the sudden, sick feeling. But as he recoils, Private Dolann advances. He's a young officer, he doesn't know how to leave good enough alone. And he cares about Krennic, cares so much that his offense turns into fingers curled under the collar of Krennic's uniform. His knuckles point against the base of Krennic's scalp. Dolann is so angry, he can't see the unfiltered surprise on the face of his superior. "I'm serving you, sir," he says, " _not_ the Empire." Dolann goes quiet, embarrassed, he shouldn't have said this, he shouldn't still be talking. "I admire your work."

“My work...” Krennic twists his chair around and shrugs Cassian's hand off, but he plucks it up with his fingers before Cassian can pull away completely. No doubt, he sees the sees scars that Cassian was not able to hide, but Cassian has excuses for every one. Private Dolann fell off his training cruiser when he was nine. Private Dolann got into a fight with a Corellian named Ty when they were in advanced prep. They both liked the same girl from Alderaan with the sweet smile and the laugh like honey.

Cassian is trained for this, he's prepared, but he feels wrong. Cold and hot war inside him, and he has to bite a cheek to stop himself from shaking. He wonders if Krennic knows somehow. If he sees the scars for what they are. If he sees Cassian.

Krennic smiles an odd, miserable smile and lets go of Cassian’s hand. “Leave, private,” he says.

Cassian and Private Dolann know there is no pushing back this time. In tandem, they nod and proceed to the door. But they pause, hand hovering over the exit keypad, and glance over their shoulder. Krennic is not looking at them. His elbows are on the desk, forehead braced against his hands. Together, they blow out a breath, something worrisome stirring in their shared chest. With his head bowed, Krennic isn't able to see the squeeze of Cassian's eyes as he pushes out into the hallway.

Cassian makes a beeline for his quarters, Dolann's quarters. He counts his steps and his breaths, schools the flush in his skin back down to a more manageable calm. But there's still a twitch in his fingers, an anxious tremor that makes him think he's been here for far too long. That he's getting too invested, that he needs to complete his mission as soon as possible. Cassian is getting close, and this gives him comfort. Krennic is starting to trust him, and all Cassian needs is one lapse to capture or kill him. His mission will finally be over, and the Rebellion will thank him for it.

Cassian ignores his heart beating a touch too fast. He pretends his hand isn't tingling from the warmth of his enemy's neck.

*The End*


End file.
